Who?
by Summer.ice7
Summary: There's more to the polar bear that accompanies 'that one guy' than there seems to be. Kumajiro doesn't ask his owner who he is because he doesn't remember the country, but to remind him of who Canada, also Matthew Williams, is. One-shot


Greetings- working slowly through next (and very late) chapters of 'Old Habits Die Hard' and the of 'How To Shred Someone's Sanity'.

This however, is a story dedicated to CantoCookieMonster who is a good friend of mine, and all that they've done for me. Hope you're doing well.

Some elements were from a fic that I read a long time ago, but can't remember the name of. If someone finds a story resembling this, that's where I got some ideas, but did NOT copy anything deliberately. Credit goes to that author.

Just a short not-quite peek into the character that is Canada. Hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer- I do not own Hetalia, though I can't wait for the new season to come out. It's about time.

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Who?

The first time he was 'forgotten', as it was, he had denied it vehemently, and the ability faded for a while. Then war and battle and _bloodpainscreamingdeath _had come and he matured, slowly growing jaded.

His ability became highly valued, especially during the first battles he'd actively fought in (_oh those torturous days when it was brother against brother, family turned, blood pelting down like burning rain-he tried not to think about those days, those days where he wasn't sure if he was killing friend or enemy or his own blood and children- those insane days)_.

After the first times, he'd been so disoriented and disconnected from the world that he'd simply drifted listlessly, trying to find himself and who he was.

It was then when he first met Kumajirou- a shape-shifting bear spirit that roamed all of the North of his land. Kumajirou had found him, lying on his back in the snow with blank amethyst eyes and had sat with him silently for hours, days until he regained some semblance of conscious. He was his first and oldest friend.

Together, they'd wandered stretching White Plains that extended to the edge of the horizon with barely anything else to break the continuous blankness, travelling under star-filled skies, pushing through south towards the warmer areas where tall grass danced in the wind. The east smelled of forest and river while the west was silhouetted in the far distance by rugged mountains that added to the contrast of fiery sunsets.

Then the call had tugged at his core, and Matthew Williams (_also Mathieu Bonnefoy, Canada, so many other names, names long gone and forgotten-_) found himself dragged back into fighting and terror. But he was older now, more experienced, more sure, and more confident with Kumajirou by his side.

He knew what he was, what he was supposed to do, and upon hours of reflection, staring into the still surface of a mirror-like lake, coniferous forest surrounding him, he smiled and stood up before turning away and walking into the forest, towards his duty.

The time after had been painful, but it'd been nothing compared to what came when World War One hit them, hard and fast. Intense, drawn out combat of men advancing through enemy fire on disadvantageous terrain that lasted hours and days, breaking men emotionally just as easily as machine-gun fired metal did physically. Vimy Ridge was a good example.

After the war and the burials and commemorations and ceremonies for hundreds of thousands of soldiers and millions of civilians, they'd rested and the world slowed slightly. Every now and then, when he'd finished his work (and even sometimes when he hadn't), he would sneak out with Kumajirou and just find a nice, quiet place to sit and enjoy himself.

But then Europe stirred with unrest and suddenly, World War Two came bursting out, spilling through, literally, the entire world, sweeping through countries like a raging wildfire through a dense forest. It was just as brutal and bloody as the last war, if not even more so. More battles were fought, more operations put into plan, more soldiers (_brave men and women, fighting for their country and people, for peace, dying too early and being laid to rest by weeping family- some lost to the ferocity of war and left fallen behind to time-_) died, more graves made, more civilians suffered.

The death toll rose rapidly- rapidly wasn't even a strong enough word to describe things; a mere six years had left more than _60 million people_ dead, and Lord knew how many more permanently disfigured, traumatized, broken, alone.

Returning from the war scarred, it took decades before he could actually look at anyone of his people in the eye without the instinctive knowledge of them being family with a survivor (or victim) of the war, or the faces of men he'd worked with flashing over to interact honestly.

Nightmares haunted him every night, and when he couldn't sleep, he would sit in his bed, staring at the far wall as he scratched Kumajirou's head lightly while he mouthed the names of each and every soldier ever killed in the line of battle. It kept him sane, order in chaos, and prevented him from descending too deep into the madness.

It was a part of them; every country, nation, empire, kingdom personification that had ever existed went through it- they were the being, the representation of their land and people and reflected their conditions. If one person surviving the war spiraled into depression, increase it exponentially and that was what the personifications felt. No matter that they were nigh immortal unless their 'ideal' and country ceased to exist and could withstand more than the average human ever could, they still felt all the same, if not more.

During that time, he almost lost himself again though Kumajirou had helped immensely, having been unable to do anything but offer support and comfort during the time of actual combat, as a polar bear on the battlefield would've been mighty strange. Slowly, he healed, recovered, but never fully. Whenever Kumajirou sensed that he was losing himself again, the bear would amble up slowly, stare up into clouding amethyst while blinking slowly before asking, "Who?"

Every 'who?' was not the spirit forgetting his name, but a simple reminder of who he was, who he is, and who he would forever be. At first, it took a lot of effort just to manage a reply, as bizarre as it sounded, but more often than not, the personification was drowning mentally in thousands upon millions of identities that made him. Kumajirou was patient and waited, prodding him when he didn't answer but never interrupting his thoughts when he was trying to vocalize them.

Gradually, it became more and more natural, until it was just habit for the bear to blink obliviously, tilt his head and ask, "Who?" And every time, he would answer 'Canada' exasperatedly.

But sometimes, when he went quiet, musing with a small smile to reply 'Matthew Williams' that spoke of everything he embodied, Kumajirou would shuffle slightly with a content aura and his mouth would curl upwards.

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In one version of my head-canon, Kumajirou keeps asking Canada 'Who are you?' for this reason. /shot

Err, how was it? Not quite sure how I did on it, but leave a review if you can; concrit would be especially appreciated and it'd mean a lot to me. Thanks for reading, and have a happy new year.


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